


Of Life, Death and Matthew Murdock

by StripedScribe



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Accidents, Car Accidents, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Trauma, Near Death Experiences, Post Defenders, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 17:52:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17126000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripedScribe/pseuds/StripedScribe
Summary: Merry Christmas ClearFear!Prompt: SensesIn which Matt Murdock has had much better weeks than this one.





	1. Fight For Your Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Clearfear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clearfear/gifts).



He weaved in and out of consciousness, brief snippets of events speaking out to him each time he surfaced, clawing at the dark waves crashing over his mind. There was somewhere he was supposed to be. The waves broke over his head, strong, powerful, and fear and worry rushed over him, pulling him into the deep depths, a shroud of deprivation, cutting him off from the world.

 

A shout, the sound and vibration of wheels running over tarmac, the wheeze of an oxygen mask, plastic hands pressing plastic onto skin. Pressure, pain, before it whited out, blank noise where there once was life, suffocating, drowning. The smell of antiseptic, of strangers, of blood soaked clothing, of recycled air, forced through a mask, forced into lungs too weary to try. A taste of hospitals, ambulance, stuck in his mouth, death, the dying, blood and unnatural cleanliness. Everything bleached, bleached, bleached, turning the darkness into pure whiteness, before it became one and the same. Nothingness.

 

A memory. Of when he once had sight, the red of a fire truck as it raced down the road past their house, sirens following it, white, yellow, police, ambulance. The colours of his father’s injuries, clean white bandages slowly becoming pink, then red, a kaleidoscope of colours across the skin as 7 year old hands tried to stop the spread and keep the purity alive.

 

The shape of his father’s face, cooling to the touch, blood sticky and congealing. Sobs racking his body as police stood there and watched, before he was taken, to a place where all the unwanted children went. Where his cries remained unheard and ignored, until a father figure taught him how to hide it, to shape this new world into his own.

 

A decision, made in a second. A life saved, one damaged, in order to save so many more. His power, His choice, to trap the devil in a human form, to craft a story, a life, in such a way. A punishment, a reward, some days it seemed both.

 

The same event, repeating itself, a sacrifice to save another, but now a friend, not a stranger, and now death loomed closer than it ever had before.

 

A constant beeping. It seemed so far away, but at the same time so important. The sound of life, so long as that machine kept beating, a body would stay warm, blood would be pumping.

 

Silence meant death. Each time he breached wakefulness it was with relief, until he was dragged back down to the dark. Sleep, or death, it all seemed the same, you only knew you were alive when you woke up.

 

Coldness rushed through blood, spreading from a scratch in his hand, cold, then warm, then blessed nothingness as he faded, losing the battle with life and wakefulness.

 

Stuck in a place inbetween two worlds, nearly awake, nearly dead, voices began to talk to him. Calling him, the feel of phantom hands grabbing him, persuading him to join them, their cold embrace soothing his soul.

’I’ll catch you Matty, if it’s your time, join me.’ The smell of blood, hands covered in bandages, the scratch of his father’s beard.

 

The darkness was comforting, a shroud, a place to hide. Peace.

’Matt, fight, you can make this, you’re strong. Matt don’t leave me, I’m sorry, this shouldn’t have happened.’ Soft hands touching his own, a familiar heartbeat, the smell of salty tears. A cause to fight back, to try and struggle to the surface. Although each time he got close, the coldness would flood him, stilling fighting limbs, paralysing him, a body and mind out of sync.

’The mind controls the body. You’re powerless, maybe it is your time, maybe you are too weak Matty.’ Vanilla, an icecream wrapper, pain.

 

He couldn’t give up. But he had nothing in him, nothing to fight with. He was broken. A heart barely strong enough to pump itself, lungs too damaged to breathe strongly on their own. Weak, limbs pressed down, tangled, a mess of cables snaking over his skin. The scratch of hospital linen. Plastic taped to his face, forcing oxygen into his body. A presence, Foggy, always there, talking, voice loaded with tears and guilt, helping him come out of the dark. His hand twitched, he needed to help, needed to stop the tears.

”Matt? Are you with me?”

 

He tried to speak, but nothing happened, a croak, a voice not used for too long. How long had he been under for? Weakly, he sought out comfort, hand trailing across the bed towards Foggy’s voice. Small moans of pain sneaking out as movement jostled broken ribs, each moment bringing his mind back to a little more clarity.

 

“Hey, hey its okay. I got you.” His hand was grabbed, gently, and he relaxed into the touch as Foggy started tracing circles into his skin, offering comfort. “I’ve called for the nurse, its okay Matt, you’re safe, you’re out of the dark. It’s okay if you can’t talk, don’t push yourself.”

 

“Fo-f.” The words were there, but they wouldn’t come out. He was panicking, how long had he been in hospital, how could they afford this. Where was he? The room around him felt empty, no movement, no sound, a blank space. ”I got you Matt, you’re safe. Calm down, its okay, you’re safe, I’m safe, Karen’s safe.” It took too much concentration, too much effort, but he locked onto Foggy’s heartbeat, truth, truth, truth. He smelt of fear and sadness, salty tears threatening to spill, but the patterns on his hand continued to ground him, an anchor point to reality, away from the dead who seeked him to join their cause. “All your friends are safe, we’re here. Karen went home last night to have a sleep and a shower, she’ll be back in a couple of hours. We’re not leaving you Matt, you’ve got us. We’re safe.”

 

A door nearby clattered open, the echoes and sudden noise of outside bringing a shape to the room. Small, just the bed he was in, Foggy, Foggy’s chair. A glass window next to the door, but he couldn’t work out if it was covered. A chair on the other side. He recognised the smell of flowers, tracked it down to a table, a vase sat on it.

 

But where was he. How long had he been there, what day was it, what time was it. What had happened to the city, who was protecting it. Was Foggy hurt? He felt as though Foggy was injured, but it was him in the hospital. What happened. How did this happen.

”Have you rejoined us now then Mr Murdock?”

The voice startled him out of his thoughts, panic thoroughly setting in, he hadn’t heard her approach him, drugs in his system clouding his senses. He knew he must have jumped, jolted, Foggy’s second hand reaching to his shoulder, rubbing slow gentle circles, reassuring. Where was he, why was he here, what happened. His breathing sped up, hyperventilating against broken ribs, damaged skin, bandages too tight, too constricting, he was trapped.

 

“Matt, Matt, calm down, you’re okay, you’re okay.”

 

“Fo-fog-fo.” Too weak, all energy sapped by breathing, he tried to push himself up, feeling light-headed and weighed down all at once. Suddenly there was another set of arms on him, he was pushed down, laid back down, hands comforting and restraining him all at once.

”Matt, Matt, please, not again, you’re okay, you’re safe.” The pain in Foggy’s voice was too much, why was he so sad, why so anguished. He continued trying to fight, to get up, weak hands batting at the shapes in the shadows. “Matt, don’t make us do this to you again, listen to us, we’re not your enemy.”

 

Fake words, he was confused, he couldn’t be here, why were they stopping him from leaving, he should be able to leave. Cables, attached to him, they needed to go, needed to be gone. Where were they, how could he get the snakes off of him, evil, wrong, they shouldn’t be there. Wrong wrong wrong wrong. Snakes, not right, not natural, not needed. Get out get off get away. 

 

“I’m sorry Matt.”

Two sets of hands suddenly moved, holding his hand still. He stopped, confused, head tilted as the snakes were moved. Then the coldness.

 

“N-n-n. Fo, nu.” He tried to fight, but the shadows were clawing at him again, dragging him down to the depths, to the silence. ”It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you, you’re okay.” He was lowered down, covered, cables moved, tidied. Nasal cannula adjusted, and a hand pushed through his hair, before tracing down to his own hand, soft skin comforting.

 

Life fades to darkness, taste and smell disappears, then hearing, until the last thing he knows is a hand in his own, small circles stretching over his skin.


	2. Panic In Silence

There was too many people in the room. Voices, overlapping each other, raised, hushed. Someone shouting over it all, telling people to be quiet. Hands on him, touching him, he tried to coil up in defence, but was stopped, and the voices stopped. Before starting again, words overlapping each other, lawsuit, sue, claim. Compensation. It was too much, he needed to get out of here, get to somewhere quiet. The beeping, constant, in his ear, increased, so fast. It was funny, how it matched how he felt. A voice cleared over the others, and the mass of shadows moved, out of his room, leaving him in the silence. The beeping slowed again, and the darkness claimed him.

The next time he surfaced, he was alone. Abandoned. For company, he had just the ticking of a clock, the beep of monitors. Silence outside the room, something he hadn’t been able to pay attention to last time, but was now profound, soundproofing, protecting him from them, or them from him?

His nose itched, and he went to scratch it, freezing in panic as his wrist was caught. The same with the other. Why was he restrained? He moved his head, contorting to try and rub his nose against his shoulder, failing and then freezing in a panic.

What if he was being arrested for being Daredevil. What if he had been arrested, Foggy and Karen had left him to escape the same fate. Abandoned, thrown to the sharks. 

The beeping of the monitor further demonstrated his panic, shrill, constant, flooding his hearing. He pulled at the restraints, feeling stronger, but still too weak to do anything. 

He was being punished, he’d been taken, he couldn’t let his identity be exposed like this. Too many people were at risk. Foggy and Karen were right for abandoning him, they needed to save themselves, not get caught up. Who told them he was Daredevil though, who betrayed him? No one knew outside his friends. And he was certain that whatever happened for him to end up here, happened with him as a civilian, not as Daredevil. Who could have exposed him. Foggy, Karen, Claire. Jessica, Luke, Danny. The list of people who knew who he was was forever growing. Fisk. 

Fisk. Perhaps he hadn’t taken the threat to heart, perhaps he had exposed him, through his groups in prison. 

He was in trouble.

If Fisk had told someone, the police would know. They’d linked them together in the past, and dodged that bullet then.

Why was he still in hospital then, and alone at that. 

He was restrained though.  
How could he escape. Needed to escape, needed to get out of here, out of the country. Flee his sins. 

The door opening suddenly exposed his face to the light, a nurse looked in, alerted by his raised heartrate, and then spurred into action by his panic stricken face. 

“Mr Murdock, what’s wrong?” He simply rattled his wrists against the bed, breathing getting ever heavier, quicker. 

”You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re fine. Can you tell me what’s got you upset?”

“A-a-rrest? Wh-why?”

”No, no chickie, you’re not arrested. You panicked the last few times you woke up, I don’t know if you remember or not, but you tried to rip out your IV line, you were very disorientated and scared. They’re for your own safety, if you’re with me again now I can take them off, they’re not handcuffs.”

“Fo?” Calm, but confused, he lowered himself back down, head tilted as she loosened the restraints, resting his hands back on the covers.

”Your friend? He had to nip outside to speak to someone, he’s just up in the family room, you got a bit agitated before when there was a lot of people in here, we thought you would be resting for a while.”  
“Who?”

”I’m not sure on her name, a lady, she has long black hair.” Matt sensed her glancing up, as though looking at something above his head. “Sorry, that wouldn’t help you. I’m not sure, I’ll go and tell him you’re awake.”

”Hmm, tired.”

”Yeah I know chickie. You in pain at all?”

”Can’ feel ‘nything.” 

“Okay, that’s the medication you’re on, you’d be in a lot more pain if you could feel. Have a rest dear, and I’ll tell your friend you’re up.” She wrote a couple things down in a chart, before offering him some water, leaving him in the silence again. Whilst the door was open, he could hear the hustle and bustle of the hospital, screaming, crying, laughing. Too much noise, but it reminded him of life, that there was other people around, he hadn’t been abandoned in this world. 

When the door closed, it was as though the world had disappeared again. It was just him, the monitors and his thoughts. And that could be a dangerous place to be. He tried to take stock of his body, work out what had happened, how he had been injured. But everything was so numb, white noise where there once was screams of pain, nerves dulled with whatever medication was being pumped around his body. And no one had explained to him still what had happened, or if they had, he’d forgotten. He wanted a familiar voice, and it hurt so much to admit that. He wanted Foggy.


	3. Remember Your Past

The next time he woke, sleep still clinging to his eyes, it was finally to the sound of familiar voices.

”Foggy go home, I’ll stay with him. You need to have a shower, have something to eat, change. You’ll be no help to him if you’re running yourself in the ground. Go, meet up with Karen, get out of here for a bit. He’ll be fine, he’s out the dark now, you told me, they said he’s on the road back.”

“Are you sure Mom?”

”I’m not losing two of my sons to hospital. Look after yourself, I’ll look after Matty for a while.”

“Ring me if anything changes, please?”

”I will Foggy, go, take a break. You haven’t left this room in days.”

“He panics if he wakes up on his own. Karen’s off running all the legal stuff, covering the story so someone else doesn’t, seeing what compensation he can get. Not that money’s a worry at the moment, what with Danny covering costs. I didn’t have anyone else, not anyone that I trusted enough, or that Matt knows enough to trust with what they'd find out. Private doctors, the works. I think Danny feels he owes us something.” He chuckled, fake and forced, tiredness weighing in his voice. 

“I’ve got him Fog, go. We’ll talk properly later, you look exhausted. Let me take some of the work.”

"Love you mom."

The door opened, the hospital much quieter than usual, and then softly closed, silence covering the room again. He felt, tingly, body numb and still without sensation. Opening his eyes, he moved his hand, Anna walking closer to the bed, back to what he’d dubbed Foggy’s chair.

”Oh hey sweetheart, you awake, or not really?”

“Hmm, yeah? Feel, tingly.” Too drugged, too drowsy, speaking seemed like way too much effort, and he winced at how hoarse his voice was, how scratchy his throat had become from disuse. “Water? Please?”

She helped him, giving slow slips of water, and the cold sensation invigorated him a little, a chill travelling through his body, breaking through some of the numbness. Finally allowing his brain to work, to clear the fog. He was sad, why was he so sad right now? Foggy?

“Oh sweetheart, hey, it’s okay, don’t cry.” He rubbed at his own face, not noticing the tears tracking down his cheek, even as the smell of salt filled the air. “First time you’ve been with us for a while by the sounds of things, you’ve been worrying us half to death.”

”I don’ know wha happened? Can’ remember?” Why couldn't he know, what had been blotted from his memory?

”Oh lovey. Oh I didn’t know, they said you might have some amnesia, oh sweetheart. There was an accident, you were hit by a car, a drunk driver mounted the kerb.”

Flashes of sound, the screech of brakes. People shouting. Foggy. Body hitting metal hitting the ground, head bouncing uselessly, a crash, ringing in his ears. 

”We were so worried, they thought you might not make it.”

Waking up, limbs splayed against the concrete, blood trickling down his face, his arms, scrapes and gashes covering him. Shouts of passers-by, calls for an ambulance, for police, for anyone. ‘He’s blind, give him space, I’m his friend. Please!’ Shock, an event travelling too fast to realise what had happened. Numbing everything, movement like walking underwater, or through a cloud. 

A white cane, useless and abandoned feet away from a crime scene, a picture perfect moment for the photographers emerging from buildings, vultures to the crimes of the Kitchen. Uncaring of the human soul lying broken on the sidewalk, priority the price of a story.

Confusion, and then pain, flooding his body, broken, broken, broken. ‘Shhh, shhh it’s okay Matt, I’m here, I’m here, I’m sorry.’ Salt, tears, anger. Elsewhere there was shouting, someone being forced to sit. Fuel covering the ground, the smell of gasoline clogging the air.

Spitting up blood, head tilted to the side. Flinching, as the sound of sirens grew nearer, and people surrounded him. The smells, so many characters, the excess of perfumes people wore, the food they had spilled in their excitement or fear of something happening. 

A blanket, a stranger’s draped over him, smelling of dog and smoke. It was cold down here on the floor, surface water soaking his suit, mingling with the blood. His clothes would be ruined. 

Darkness and silence again, before he awoke, pain, panic, as he was lifted, moved against his will. Strapped, tied, plastic. Surrounding him, restraining him. Foggy?

An explosion, fire, panic. Smoke and chemicals flowing through the air, effortlessly forcing their way into lungs of the innocent. A mask forced onto him, forcing his lungs to take in oxygen instead of the death in the air. 

Rattle of wheels, shouts, a stampede of people parting like the ocean, to ferry his body to the ambulance, or to a hearse. Time would tell, and as he faded once again under the waves, his fate was left in the hands of others.

But life carries on. The Devil lives, forced back to our world by the work of the Kitchen. 

His work not yet done, God refusing to accept a soldier so young. Matt Murdock lives.


End file.
